~ Life as a Reform Jew-by-Choice

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She sobbed softly, unable to contain her grief any longer. She and her family had traveled from the East coast and although the trial they had desperately hoped would happen had once again been delayed, they came to court every day to hear about the last moments of their son’s life.

With swollen eyes and a trembling voice, she told me how her son never took chances. He never wanted to come to California in the first place, believing the “party” atmosphere would distract him from his work. When he was old enough to drive, she and her husband had “drilled into his head” the dangers of drinking and driving and after the recent loss of a close friend to the lethal combination of drinking, driving, and speeding she knew the lesson was fresh in his mind.

She spoke to him several times that day, just the “usual” mother and son chit-chat. He was going to help his friend move then hang out with his buddies for a bit before heading off to bed; he’d done some extra work during the week and he was exhausted come Friday night. She reminded him “for the millionth time” not to drink and drive and he stopped her mid-sentence, saying he didn’t intend on going “out,” just going over to a friend’s apartment for some dinner. She couldn’t understand why his plans had changed.

He sent her a text message the evening of the crash, telling her that he was having a good time and he’d call her the next day. That’s the last she heard from him. Early the next morning, she received the call from authorities in California telling her that her son was dead.

Seeing the two surviving passengers that were in the car that night would be hard, she knew, but she also knew that they were the ones that could tell her what happened. She knew the driver would be in the courtroom as well and although she understood that he would have his back to her as he sat at the defendant’s table, she was unsure of what her reaction would be. When the time came, she wasn’t able to enter the courtroom. She stood sobbing at the door, looking through the small window waiting for her anger to pass. Eventually she entered, took her seat next to her daughter and husband, and steeled herself for what she was about to hear.

She learned that it wasn’t her son’s idea to go to the bar that night but that he reluctantly went along, “to have a couple of beers.” She discovered that his friends had discussed who would be the designated driver and had confronted their choice when he began to drink his first beer of the evening, telling him they had money for a cab if he didn’t want to drive. The driver promised to stop after “just one.” She heard one survivor describe how all three passengers stood outside the car, asking the driver if he was sure he was okay to drive and she listened as the speaker recalled how he yelled at the driver to slow down. Finally, she began to sob as she heard, in graphic detail, the sequence of events leading up to the crash; the missed turn, the illegal u-turn, the increasing speed, the whining of the 8-cylinder engine, the feel of the rear tires losing traction, the realization that the car had crossed the center divide and was heading straight for a tree. As she sat in a cold, all-but-empty courtroom, she heard how a near-stranger was with her son as he took his last few breaths and her shoulders began to heave with the understanding that her son did not die alone.

She handed me two photographs of her son and I examined the face of the person that smiled back at me. Unsure of what to say, I was reminded of something I heard from one of the Rabbis at synagogue and although I wasn’t visiting the home of a mourner, the same principle applied. Trite, cliché platitudes aren’t helpful to someone who has lost a loved one but being present in mind and body is. I sat quietly, putting my hand gently on her shoulder as she took the photographs from my hand and gently stroked the face in the picture. She hugged me as she stood to leave and I watched as her husband and daughter helped her walk down the hallway toward the exit. I knew that it would most likely be another 6 months before the man accused of killing her son would face trial and I knew when that time came she would once again fly across the United States to be there.

PEOPLE DIE EVERY DAY AS A RESULT OF SOMEONE WHO CHOOSES TO EITHER DRINK AND DRIVE OR GET INTO A CAR WITH A DRIVER THAT HAS BEEN DRINKING. DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE. DON’T GET INTO A CAR WITH A DRIVER THAT HASBEEN DRINKING.

Yes, the services are long. To some, they may seem boring. But to me they are hauntingly beautiful and extremely significant. Yom Kippur. The holiest day of the Jewish calendar. For weeks I prepared both my mind and my soul to take part in the rituals, prayers, and music of Yom Kippur. Instead, I was home in bed, my fever and achy body keeping me from much-needed sleep. And now as Sunday turns into Monday, I’m sitting at the computer attempting to console myself by writing about the profound guilt and disappointment I feel.

Although I know G-d is here with me I cannot feel G-d and although I believe that G-d was with me despite the fact that I had to miss services I still feel lonely. I miss people from my community that I was unable to pray with and I miss hearing the words of my spiritual leaders. I miss the feeling that I get after services, knowing that I made an all-important connection to G-d at a time I needed it the most.

G-d is with me, I know but tonight, G-d seems so far away. I can’t believe I missed it. I can’t believe it’s over.

Wow… what an odd afternoon. The gathering didn’t turn out as bad as I expected but it was awkward and I was uncomfortable.

Generally, I can hold my own in any conversation. I’m educated, intellectual, and articulate. I don’t know why, then, when I find myself sitting amongst individuals that truly believe they are on the cutting edge of all that is and all that will be, I become quiet. I am suddenly aware that I am the biggest person at the table and I begin to make an effort to move as little as possible so as not to draw attention to this fact. I listen to the contrived conversation and contribute almost nothing and I gradually realize that I have, for the most part, become invisible. Gradually it becomes obvious that I simply don’t fit in and instead of obsessing about what I can say or do that will allow me to be a part of this “in crowd,” I sit back and am glad that I’m not.

The person I am isn’t impressed by wealth. I’m not impressed by the expensive car you drive or the new house you just bought or the expensive, 5-star vacation you just returned from. I don’t react to the names of the people you say you know and I don’t care about the connections you believe you have. I won’t say what I know you want to hear and I won’t jockey for position with those that desperately want to live in your world. That is not the person I am and it is not the person I want to be.

Monetarily, I am far from wealthy. I don’t drive an expensive car nor do I dream of owning one and the house I live in isn’t anything fancy. I’ve not been on a true vacation since I don’t remember when and the people I strive to emulate are ones I deeply respect and truly like. I am a good friend to those that choose to get to know me and I do my best to be the best person I know how to be.

I know this sounds really cliché, however, if wealth were measured by the joy I feel when I see my spouse’s car pull in the driveway after work or the excitement I get when I am able to follow along and keep up with the Rabbi as he/she reads, in Hebrew, from the Torah or the pride I feel when the Torah is removed from the Ark and I am reminded that I am part of the People of Israel, then I’d be the equivalent of a lottery winner.

Life must be about more than name-dropping or status-seeking and I have to be a person that is real no matter who I’m with or where I am. To the people at the gathering, I may have been invisible and unimportant but at the end of the day, I know who I am… and who I’m not. I wonder if any of them can say the same?

Proposition 8 has been overturned! Unless you live in a cave, have no access to TV, radio, the Internet, or print media, you know that last week, Chief U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker ruled that Prop. 8 violates the U.S. Constitution, saying,”… Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California Constitution the notion that opposite-sex couples are superior to same-sex couples.” In his 136-page decision, Walker repeatedly shows that he understands the ridiculous nature of the ban against same-sex marriage, likening it to “race restrictions on marital partners [which] were once common in most states but are now seen as archaic, shameful, or even bizarre.”

Although my wife and I are celebrating the decision (we are one of 18,000 gay/lesbian couples that were married between June 2008 and November 2008) we know that it is also cause for supporters of Prop. 8 to once again begin their campaign of fear based on religious principles. After all, doesn’t the entire issue of homosexuality come down to religion? Charles Cooper, the lead counsel for Prop. 8 supporters says that lifting the ban on same-sex marriage causes California to “embark on a novel experiment with the fundamental institution of marriage.” Ask any Prop. 8 supporter and he/she will undoubtedly talk about this “fundamental institution of marriage,” quoting chapter and verse from some religious text that seems to suggest that marriage is reserved for heterosexual couples only. Most will say that marriage has been defined “since the beginning of time” as a union between a man and a woman. Really? Do any of us know when the “beginning of time” really is? When was marriage “defined” and who came up with the definition?

Here’s what I know… gay/lesbian couples love one another just like heterosexual couples do. We pay bills, have families, kiss one another goodnight, worry about one another, buy groceries, put gas in our cars, do laundry, and engage in countless other activities that opposite sex couples do. G-d created us in G-d’s image and G-d loves us just like G-d loves everything that G-d created. To suggest otherwise is to claim to know the mind of G-d – which is virtually impossible.

Proposition 8 was created out of fear – fear that the “institution” of marriage will cease to exist if same-sex couples are allowed to marry. Fear that chaos will ensue and soon, people will marry their cats or dogs (really?). Fear that children exposed to same-sex marriage will think it’s “okay” to be a homosexual and fear that allowing same-sex couples to wed will encourage others to engage in this “deviant lifestyle.” Allow me to help eliviate the fear:

The “institution” of marriage has been marred by divorce, separation, domestic violence, and men/women trapped in love-less unions.

Same-sex couples aren’t animals and the notion that allowing same-sex couples to marry will result in people being allowed to marry their pets is ridiculous.

Children that see same-sex couples should be taught that everyone is different and being different is okay.

Despite the rumors and suggestions, homosexuality is not a disease and it is not something that one can “catch.” I am a lesbian because I was born a lesbian and being a homosexual is only a small part of who I am.

The bottom line is this – my spouse and I want to be afforded the right to marry and celebrate our love like most heterosexual couples do. Think for a moment how it would feel to be told that it is wrong to love who you love and you can’t get married because a select group of people think it cheapens the “institution.” Imagine being told that your relationship doesn’t really count because it’s not “real,” then imagine hearing this sentiment on a daily basis. Once you get a clear picture, you’ll get an idea of what it’s like to be one-half of a same-sex couple.

My spouse and I are legally married… at least for the time being. Hopefully some day we’ll be legally married once and for all.

This past Sunday, I went to a wedding. The “young” woman (26) is the daughter of a friend I’ve known since Junior High School. Kay met her now-husband while she was attending the same high school that her mom and I attended and after many years of dating, graduating from college and beginning a career, Kay and Kory are now husband and wife. As Scully’s Mom and I made the hour-and-a-half drive to the wedding venue I thought back to a day in June, 1982, that I, as a young bride-to-be, waited for my guests to arrive and prepared to wed a man I wasn’t in love with.

Our relationship was tumultuous from the start and despite repeated warnings from friends and family, I continued to see Robert. I was a practicing Catholic at the time and although the church forbid co-habitating before marriage Robert and I got an apartment together in a suburb roughly 20 miles outside of Los Angeles and each of us moved our meager belongings into our new one-bedroom “home.” My parents were so upset by the move that we didn’t see or speak to one another for nearly two years.

It wasn’t long before things between Robert and I turned violent. He was a heavy drinker and occasionally used drugs and because I did neither and was upset that he did, he became violent whenever I broached the topic. I spent more than a few nights in the local ER only to return home to flowers and gifts the next day. Each time, Robert assured me that “it would never happen again,” so when it did I was surprised until I slowly realized that not only would it continue to happen but each time would be worse than the one before.

Despite the obvious warning signs, we planned a wedding for June 2, 1982. It’s been said that one of two things happens when couples plan to get married – they either focus completely on the wedding and forget about the marriage or focus on preparing for the marriage with the wedding being a celebration of what’s to come. I did the former. I knew that I wasn’t in love with Robert (in fact, I was scared of him) and yet my desperate need to loved and wanted, to be part of a “couple,” was stronger than logic and I soon shifted my attention to wedding plans – and for a while, that seemed to work.

As the time drew near to actually marry Robert, I told noone that I didn’t love him (and never really had). I simply went through the motions and after the hour-long Catholic ceremony, I was his wife. He had been drinking before the wedding and continued to drink at the reception and when it came time to give the vendor the last payment, he shoved a stack of our wedding cards into my hands and told me to go into the bathroom and “see how much money you can find in these.” Through tears, I opened every card and with the money we received and a $200.00 loan from his father, we paid what we owed and headed off to Las Vegas for the honeymoon, with little more than $100.00 in our pockets. All I remember about that trip is almost being escorted off the plane after Robert became belligerent with another passenger and stumbled over to where the man sat, threatening to “beat the &%$@ out of him.” I honestly don’t remember anything after that.

I’ve been divorced for many, many, years but each time I attend a wedding, I find myself traveling back in time to my own wedding and I become filled with sadness and regret. I also ask myself why I can’t let my terrible experience remain in the past where it belongs and focus on the loving, committed relationship I’m in now. I feel ashamed that I can’t set my feelings aside and be completely present for the couple whose love I’m there to celebrate and I sincerely and honestly ask G-d to help me let go of a past so painful that it returns to haunt my thoughts during times that are meant for happiness and love.

Kay and Kory are likely on their way to their honeymoon destination by now. They’ll come home to a condo they bought, furnished, and decorated with the help of family and friends and they’ll continue on with their lives as a married couple. As I watched Kay on the dance floor Sunday, I noticed she looked genuinely happy and her smile told me that she thought of nothing but the fun she was having in that moment. At the same time, I felt my breath catch in my throat and tears come to my eyes, not because I was happy for her but because I was sad for myself – what I experienced was envy. Immanuel Kant describes it best:

” Envy is a propensity to view the well-being of others with distress, even though it does not detract from one’s own… a reluctance to see our own well-being overshadowed by another’s because the standard we use to see how well off we are is not the intrinsic worth of our own well-being but how it compares with that of others…”

I felt small on the ride home and wondered if there will ever be a time when I don’t envy the fortune of others? Perhaps, as I prepare to turn 50 next year, I’m beginning to mourn my “youth” knowing that age is simply a state of mind and turning 50 doesn’t have to be the end of anything! Or perhaps I went to a wedding and simply had a bad day traveling back down the halls of memory.

It’s funny about taking a trip “down memory lane.” I can do so with all the lights on and find enjoyable memories – things I want to remember. But I can also make the trip with the lights off, failing to allow the light from my current life to surround me and lead the way. I can become a better person by refusing to allow my past to turn me into someone I don’t like and I can ask G-d to give me the strength and courage to let this particular event from my past become a very distant memory.

I hope Kay and Kory are having a good time in the tropical paradise they chose for their honeymoon and as I think of them this week I will ask G-d to allow me to turn the ugliness that is envy into the brightness that is self-less happiness for a young couple just beginning their journey together.

Holding on to the past has become difficult and painful. I believe it’s time to let it go.

They say we’re only as sick as our secrets. Truth be told, I don’t really understand what this means. The phrase is used widely in 12-Step circles, the idea being that if we’re keeping secrets then eventually the secret will become an excuse to drink, eat, use, or engage in any addictive, unhealthy activity. I don’t know whether or not this is true but I wonder if, in some circumstances, keeping a secret is okay? I mean, there are things that just aren’t meant to be shared, right?

Comparatively speaking, my secret is probably modest. I haven’t done anything criminal and I’m fortunate enough to have not yet been a victim of any crime. I’ve not cheated on my wife and I’ve done nothing to deliberately hurt another human being or animal. I’m told that the consequences of what I’ve done are all but non-existent; people do this kind of thing all the time. In the long run, the only person I’ve hurt is myself. So I ask myself why I feel this thing I’ve done must be kept a secret and the answer comes back loud and clear – I’m ashamed.

I’m a person that cares too much about what other people think and as a result, I’ve spent a lot of time concentrating on how to make you like me. Am I smart enough? Am I dressed okay? Did I say the right thing? Have I made a mistake? Are you mad at me? Was it something I did/didn’t say? I do an adequate job of not allowing anyone to “see” the internal monologue that runs through my head, but it’s there all the time and sometimes it’s so loud that it drowns out any positive thoughts that I have. It takes a lot of time and a lot of energy to care so much about whether or not you like me and yet somehow, I can’t seem to stop caring. Over the years (and as I’ve gotten older) I seem to care less but despite my best effort, the monologue continues to play. I guess that’s why I have this secret.

Until I am able to summon the courage to share what I did today I have to believe that sometimes, it is okay to have a secret. I take solace in the fact that there will always be One who loves me no matter the secrets I carry and it is this One that will give me the strength to someday learn that it’s okay to make mistakes and it’s okay to ask for help and I don’t have to be perfect to be liked or accepted or loved. Perhaps I do understand what it means to be as sick as my secrets.

The photos are disturbing. In the late 1960s, pesticide almost rendered the Brown Pelican extinct and just last year the unique bird, that at one time numbered 50,000 in Louisiana, was taken off the Endangered Species List. Unfortunately, the current crisis in the Gulf will most likely change the pelican’s status once again.

The CEO of British Petroleum (BP), Tony Hayward, has admitted that “BP could have done more” to safeguard against the Deepwater Horizon oil rig explosion. Gee, Tony! Do ya think?!?!? Talk about a day late and a dollar short! You could have done more to prevent the worst environmental disaster in United States history? You could have done more to prevent the death of 11 men? You could have done more to prevent thousands and thousands of helpless animals from a needless death? Then why the hell didn’t you? The answer? In one word? Greed.

Mishkan T’filah, the Reform Judaism siddur (prayer book) offers several prayers that can be recited as the congregation welcomes Shabbat. One of these prayers reads in part,

…There are days when we exploit nature as if it were a horn of plenty that can never be exhausted.

Greed. The more oil BP (and any number of oil companies) pumps from the depths of the ocean the more money that can be made and the larger the paycheck for executives of the company. The more corners cut the faster the oil can reach the surface and the more money that can be made for the oil company. The less thought about regulations that are in place to safeguard the lives of the people on the rig and protect the environment the more money that can be made for the owners of the rig. The result from cutting corners and ignoring regulations? Look at the Brown Pelican. Ask the widows of the 11 killed.

Funny thing about nature; push her too hard and she finally breaks. What’s ironic is we work so hard to extract the oil she produces and now that she’s given it up we’re working so hard to stop it. We should all pray that the executives at BP figure out a way to do that before it’s too late. Unfortunately, judging from the looks of the Brown Pelican, I think it already is.

I don’t really like to talk about my job. I’ve been there over 25 years and although I’m thankful (especially in this economic climate) to have a job, I look forward to the day six years from now when I can retire and do something I really have a passion for. Until then, I get up every morning and go to work because that’s what I need to do to pay my bills and put gas in my car.

One of the aspects of my job is to interact with the public, whether it be at the courthouse, in the courtroom, in the office, or in the field. I was in the field today, traveling from one stop to the next to advise specific individuals that their presence would be required in court. For the most part, nobody’s home during the day so I leave a business card and hope for a call the next day so the appropriate arrangements can be made. The third stop on my route today took me to a condominium complex (always fun because there are many, many, many “streets” within a complex, making specific addresses very hard to locate) and as I approached the specific condo I’d been looking for, it was obvious that no one was home. I approached the gate and began to ready another business card and that’s when the smell hit me. Great. Someone living here owns a dog. I love dogs, but I don’t make it a habit to approach someone’s front door if I know there’s a dog nearby; I’ve found that dogs don’t like to be surprised and have issues with strange people approaching what they feel belongs to them.

Due to the nature of my job, I see and hear disturbing things every day and I’ve developed the ability over the years to focus on the task at hand and keep my emotions in another part of my brain while at work. The only time that technique isn’t successful is when it comes to animals. I simply can’t stand to see an animal that’s been hurt or abused in any way. That being said, I’m sure it’s obvious where this post is going.

He was in the corner of the concrete “yard,” attempting to shade himself under the leaves of a withered plant. He looked tired and his muzzle was mostly white with just a touch of its original brown remaining. He was looking at me but made no attempt to bark or move from the spot he had found. There were droppings throughout the small space and it was thick with flies. Near the front door, I could see a small bowl of dry dog food and a plastic container that had once contained water but was now empty. Before I realized it he stood up and started to walk toward the gate. I expected to hear a growl followed by a bark, but I heard nothing. He made it half way between the front door and the gate and he stopped, looked up at me, and started to shake.

For a second or two I was able to stay composed but his large, brown eyes seemed so sad and lonely that I could no longer hold it together and I started to cry. I opened the gate and made my way around the droppings to where he was sitting. I didn’t reach out to touch him but I talked to him in a quiet, soothing voice and told him not to be afraid. I found the garden hose amidst the mess and filled his water bowl until it overflowed then gently set the bowl down in front of him. Still shaking and not wanting to look away from me, he finally began to drink. I stayed for a minute or two more then walked away, knowing there wasn’t much more I could do. He continued to drink and as I walked away, I could still hear him lapping at the water. When I got out to my car, I debated about whether or not to call animal control. I know that most animals that are removed from a home are taken to the shelter and euthanized if they aren’t adopted. He was an older dog and he probably wouldn’t be adopted but I decided that while he was at the shelter at least he would get a comfortable place to sleep, good food, clean water, and be cared for by people who truly, truly, love animals.

I ended up making the call. As I drove away I thought about the dog and the fact that soon he would be in a safe, clean environment. I wonder if his “owners” will even notice that he’s gone.

I’m sure everyone has seen the billboards or ads on TV. On the billboard, a thin girl (who I’m certain was never “banded”) stands on a scale with one fist raised in the air and a smile on her face (and because everyone celebrates Christmas, she even has a Santa hat on during the month of December). The phone number is easy to remember – 1-800-GET THIN. The TV ad features a “real” person who was banded and he/she says, “…It’s easy to lose weight now!” Well, I’d like to set the record straight.

I’ve not told many people that I had weight-loss surgery. To be honest, I’m ashamed and humiliated that I had to surgically alter my body in what must be my 5000 th attempt to lose the 200+ extra pounds I drag around everyday. However, near the end of 2008 I started to lose my balance on a regular basis. I fell several times. Fell down. Hard. One afternoon, Scully’s Mom wasn’t home and I tumbled and fell in the backyard and couldn’t get up. I sat on the lawn for 30 minutes before she got home and helped me up. Shortly after, I fell going into the grocery store and laid on the ground, stunned and bleeding from my forehead and knee, as people walked by almost as if I was invisible. Those were the two incidents that put me over the edge.

Being morbidly obese is like being invisible. It’s next to impossible to get any help in retail stores, car repair shops, home improvement stores, or anywhere that I can’t figure out how to do/get something myself. After years of being invisible, it began to eat away at my self-esteem and my confidence. Finally, I decided that I would research weight-loss surgery – something I swore I would never do.

I’d always felt like to surrender to weight-loss surgery would be to admit to myself (and everyone else) that I was the failure that I looked like. Thus the secrecy about the surgery. I told only people who absolutely needed to know and I had to know I could trust them. Only one person told me that it was “the easy way out,” and it put a fissure in our friendship that I’m not sure can ever be repaired.

I found a wonderful Doctor, decided on lap-band surgery because it was less evasive than gastric bypass (and the risks were less) and scheduled the surgery for July 13th, 2009. I was frightened about the surgery and about the prospect of what could possibly go wrong but I woke up and save for some breathing issues due to the anesthesia, I made it through okay.

For the first two weeks, I drank only protein shakes (never, never, never again will I have anything that remotely looks like SlimFast) and then started to eat soft foods (cottage cheese, yogurt, soup). After a month, I was able to eat solid food again. However, there were restrictions. There still are restrictions. And the consequences of ignoring the restrictions are not pleasant. There is a list of foods that I can no longer eat (rice, steak, lettuce, muffins, just to name a few) and the way I eat isn’t anything like it used to be. Taking small bites, chewing very well, and recognizing when I am physically satisfied (not full but satisfied) are all still things I must consciously think about, even after nearly a year. Preparing myself for the consequences of not doing so is also something I’ve been forced to do – sometimes I forget and take a large bite or eat too fast and suddenly, without warning, I get sick. This happened just once in public and I realized that everything the Doctor warned me about was absolutely true. Taking large bites or not chewing well can also result in food getting “stuck” as it attempts to go through the band. This sensation is painful – although I’ve not had a heart attack, I imagine that getting food stuck feels the same way. Sometimes, the sensation can last as long as 2 hours. I can no longer drink liquid with meals and I no longer drink carbonated beverages (as someone who drank more than a 6-pack of Diet Coke per day, this was not easy and I still crave Diet Coke on a hot day). For the most part, I refrain from drinking alcohol because my body now metabolizes it differently and statistics show that 85% of individuals that have weight-loss surgery become addicted alcohol.

I guess I’ve driven buy one too many billboards this week because on the way to work this morning, I decided that I would set the record straight. I know there are Doctors that perform weight-loss surgery and don’t offer follow-up support or appointments but believe me, these Doctors are dangerous. The lap-band is meant to be a tool. Granted, it’s a powerful tool, but it is not “easy” and it isn’t the way to “quick” weight loss. I hope that some day I’ll know how it feels to have a body that can fit in any chair, sit down on the lawn to garden, or walk long distances without hurting and I hope this happens before I turn 50 (next year). I’ve wasted most of my life sitting on the sidelines, watching people do things that I am unable to do because I’m too big.

So, the next time you see the 1-800-GET THIN billboard, know that the lap-band isn’t a “quick and easy” way to lose weight. It’s a powerful tool to help those of us that are desperate to live life in a “normal-size” body. It’s working for me and I hope it continues to work for me but I know that food will always be an issue for me.

That’s what the lap-band is REALLY like. Take it from someone who has one.